Fool
by Haeharmaiel
Summary: Rather angsty Frodo piece. Slashy themes, but unrequited.


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Fool

Author: Haeharmaiel

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E-mail: Haeharmaiel@aol.com

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Pairing(s): Frodo/Sam (unrequited**)**

Rating: PG-13

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Category: Angst

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Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or setting. They belong to J.R.R Tolkien, not me. The extract is from a song called 'Tracks of My Tears' which I also don't own, I'm just borrowing it. Not making a penny out of writing this.

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Author's Notes: This is Frodo angst. I decided that not all stories have a happy ending. This is one of them. Inspired by the song 'Tracks of My Tears'.

'Take a good look at my face,

You'll see my smile looks out of place,

Just look closer, and you might trace,

The Tracks of my Tears.'

Steam poured out into the hallway as Frodo opened the bathroom door. As the cold air rushed into the bathroom to replace the lost moisture, Frodo shivered and huddled into his bathrobe. He padded through to the master bedroom of Bag End, and autonomously began to dress.

He knew he should be feeling daunted by the prospect of yet another evening alone, but instead he felt nothing, save for shame. He had spent another hour doing what he usually denied himself – he had thought of nothing but Sam.

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'Sam. Your gardener.' Frodo mentally berated himself. _'A lad, who's only just come of age, and here you are shut up in Bag End all alone except for…except for your perverse desires.'_

How long had it been since Frodo had begun thinking of Sam in that way? Sam, his closest friend in this town of gossip and whispers. He was the only Hobbit who would give Frodo a genuine smile as he greeted him. Sam was the only one who didn't judge Frodo. He had ignored the false, public opinion of the heir and nephew of "Mad Baggins" who had disappeared spectacularly at his eleventy-first birthday party. He had befriended Frodo.

With a wry smile Frodo recalled countless happy days spent with Samwise. Never had he felt so at ease with a Hobbit of his own age. Well, more of his age than Bilbo, anyway. Fifteen years between himself and Sam. But when they were together, their age, their class all became irrelevant, for Frodo and Sam were firm friends.

They had shared everything, their hopes and dreams, their fears and nightmares, as friends should. Sam was unlike any other Hobbit Frodo had ever known. His hazel eyes would brim with curiosity sometimes. His love and enthusiasm for all living things was so infectious that the sight of a sapling tree swaying in the breeze would steal Frodo's breath away just because of the sheer beauty of it. They had had everything, until that night almost a month ago.

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'Fool.' Frodo stalked into the kitchen, unwillingly beginning to replay the events of that night once again, even as they had happened in that very room.

Sam had been at the stove, preparing dinner for a mildly protesting Frodo. "You don't have to do that you know," Frodo had said, sounding slightly put out.

"I know," Sam had said simply. He had turned around and gave Frodo an affectionate grin, and oh, there was just something about the way the lamplight caught Sam's curls, or the way his eyes smouldered so. Frodo had reeled, clutching at the oak table to steady himself.

Throughout the evening, he had slowly come to realise the unimaginable – he was in love with Samwise Gamgee. This realisation had horrified him at first, but gradually, it came to make perfect sense. Frodo's whole world had fallen into place with this one revelation.

As Sam had bidden Frodo farewell, Frodo did something he would regret later. "Goodnight, dear Sam. I love you." The last sentence had been a whisper, but nevertheless it had carried on the still night air. Sam had given him a weak smile, then a final goodbye. Then he was gone.

Frodo had thought he would very nearly die from the pain that flooded through him. It dawned on him that he may well love Samwise Gamgee, but that love would not – **could** not – be returned. Loving a lad was unnatural, and in that case, so was he.

How he had managed since then was a mystery to Frodo. He could no longer look his very own Sam in the eye. He stopped eating, he couldn't keep his food down, and anyway, it all turned into ash in the end. And as for sleeping, he couldn't remember the last time he had slept the whole night through. But when he did find sleep, he dreamt of nothing but Sam. Sam all around him, looking radiant, kissing him, touching him. Frodo would wake up panting and covered in sweat, so revolted at himself that he felt sick to the stomach.

Frodo took a bottle of vintage Old Winyards from the work surface, and selected a glass from the draining board by the enamel sink. Seating himself at the table with his back to the stove, he poured himself a full glass. Frowning pensively, he swirled the rich, red liquid in the chalice, savouring the fruity aroma that wafted upwards from it.

When had it become so painful? He drained the contents of the glass in a mouthful, and reached for the bottle to pour himself another. He sat, mulling over his feelings with only his thoughts and his wine to keep him company.

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Frodo was jerked out of his reverie a few hours later by the sound of an all too familiar voice. His heart leapt and he jumped up from his chair, knocking it over and staggering precariously due to the now empty bottle on the table.

He made his way rather unsteadily to the window of the parlour, still clutching his wineglass. Peering out into the lane, he located him.

Sam was stood with Rosie Cotton. The night was clear and still, with stars twinkling like fine jewels in an indigo velvet sky. A soft breeze ruffled Sam's hair as he slid his arms around Rosie's waist, leaning forwards so that their foreheads were touching.

Rosie gave him an endearingly shy, soft smile, which Sam's own lips reflected before moving just two inches closer to kiss the lass before him. Frodo faltered and stepped behind the curtain a little, not wanting to be discovered spying on his best friend. He gazed out of the pane that had been misted over by his breath, and clutched at the drapes for support as he watched Sam's dear, sweet lips form the words that were meant for Frodo. "I love you."

Frodo took a step back from the window, heart racing. A hollow feeling, starting in his chest rapidly spread outwards, until every part of him felt numb. His breath came in shallow gasps, and far too quickly. Frodo shook his head in feeble protest against the inevitable – Sam, **his** Sam, was in love with Rosie Cotton. The glimmer of hope that had sustained Frodo - the wish that maybe, just maybe Sam might understand, and feel the same – died. He would never understand. He would never return Frodo's love in the way Frodo wanted, needed even. 

The grief welled up in Frodo, harsh and bitter, and he gave a strangled cry. With energy borne of sheer agony, he flung the glass across the room. It smashed against the opposite wall, the sound of his heart breaking. 

Rather abstractly, he wondered how Sam would feel if he saw his master now, barely able to stand up straight. Shirt untucked and slipping off one pale shoulder, hair tousled from hours of running his finger through it anxiously. His eyes were wide and almost feral from an agony and anger he could not control, brimming with hot tears threatening to spill.

His shout turned into a sob as the tears began to flow, and he sank to his knees, curling up miserably. His wracking sobs wrenched at his very soul. _'Fool,' _he cursed, _'You fool.'_

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Sam whistled an old dancing tune as he knocked briskly on the green front door of Bag End. The sun was shining brightly in the clear sky, and though it was only early morning, Sam would tell that the day promised to be very fine. _'Not even the darkest rain cloud could cast a shadow over my spirit this morning,' _he thought. He stood on the doorstep, shifting his weight impatiently as he waited for Mr. Frodo to open the door, and welcome Sam in for a cup of tea before Sam got to work, as he always did. 

When no answer came, Sam stood, hesitating for a split second before turning the handle and cautiously opening the door. It had not been locked the night before.

Sam stepped from the sunshine into the shadows of the hallway. Something was wrong, he could feel it. The smial was empty and cold, lacking the usual warm cheer it held for Sam. As he had been out with Rosie last night, Sam hadn't been to visit Frodo as he sometimes did on an evening. 

A chill pierced his heart when he saw it, sharp and ice cold. Frodo was lying sprawled on the floor, cloak draped haphazardly over one shoulder. He was lying face down, his mop of raven curls spilling onto the ornate rug. 

Sam ran to his master's side and rolled him over. Frodo's cheeks and lips were pale, and his skin was cold. However, his chest moved up and down as he breathed deeply. Relieved, Sam let out a breath he had not known he had been holding. His gaze caught sight of a bottle, half its contents seeping across the floor, staining it blood red. 

"Oh no, Mr Frodo," Sam muttered, placing his hand on Frodo's forehead. Frodo stirred, his eyelashes fluttering, and gave a soft moan that was cut off by a paroxysm of coughing. 

"Frodo? Frodo?"

He gave no reply. Sighing and frowning concernedly, Sam carried Frodo to his bed, and sat at the bedside, waiting for the sun to rise. 

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End file.
